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<title>A Revisiting of Potentially Regrettable Evening Phone Calls by Yellow_Bird_On_Richland</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652469">A Revisiting of Potentially Regrettable Evening Phone Calls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland/pseuds/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland'>Yellow_Bird_On_Richland</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Community (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Also passing reference to Jeff's former alcoholism, But with some degree of hope, F/M, Jeff is trapped at Greendale, Melancholy, Post Season 6, Post-Canon, Slight reference to Greendale's inherently Gothic nature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:47:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland/pseuds/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff hesitates, his thumb hovering over the final two numbers. He’s still got it memorized.</p><p>He can’t even blame this one on a night of heavy drinking.</p><p>But he doesn’t want that excuse, that ersatz absolution. He wants to acknowledge this feeling, this...this absence as presence thing that’s solidified between him and Britta.</p><p>He punches in the last two digits and presses the call button before he can stop himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Britta Perry/Jeff Winger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Revisiting of Potentially Regrettable Evening Phone Calls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Response to the Florence and the Machine Tumblr prompt “And everything I ever did was just another way to scream your name.”</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jeff shouldn't feel verklempt right now. He should be excited, at the very least, maybe even elated, at the fact that he, Frankie, and Craig secured a six-figure, four-year state grant that will finally drag Greendale's STEM program into the 2010s, maybe even into the mid 2010s, thanks to their partnership with the University of Denver. Finally getting funds for a capital project had been a godsend, too.</p><p>And sure, Jeff's happy—thrilled, truly—about the news, given the endless early mornings and late nights the three of them had poured into the project. Even if implementation doesn't go perfectly—and, knowing Greendale, there will inevitably be hitches and snags here and there—creating a new, not-quite-state-of-the-art STEM lab will absolutely benefit at least a few years' worth of students.</p><p>As he slowly finishes his first whiskey neat of the evening (he lives by a two drink limit now, and he's learned to savor the taste of top-shelf booze just as much, if not more, than the effects), it hits him, what's wrong, as he sees a group of kids pile into a booth, and one of them, one of his former Intro to Law kids, gives him a sort of haphazard grin; even college students think it's a bit strange to see their professors out and about.</p><p>Jeff offers a nod in return. "How's it going, Cole?"</p><p>"Good, good," he answers, but the response is perfunctory, since he's got his buddies and a couple of girls grabbing his attention, and Jeff remembers, in a moment of bittersweet nostalgia, <em>"That was me, once. That was us."</em></p><p>"Jeff."</p><p>Frankie's voice yanks him back to his seat. "Hmm?"</p><p>She glances back towards the bar. "You want anything? My treat."</p><p>He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good. Think I'm just gonna call it an early night. Thanks for the offer, though."</p><p>There are fewer reminders of all that he's lost—or, rather, all that the rest of his friends have achieved—at his apartment compared to the Greendale and Greendale-adjacent haunts that comprise his home. He's become a fixture, but he's also become fixed, and the thought drives him to make his second allotted drink.</p><p>Abed might have been the one with tracking devices on all of them (none of them are sure if he actually planted those) but Jeff feels like he does the most searching out now, all over social media. He sees pictures from Troy and Abed going to movie premieres—some hipster ones, some low-budget productions—around L.A. with the occasional appearance from Annie, who, if her Instagram posts can be trusted, is head over heels for her new girlfriend.</p><p>Britta not being on social media makes it easier. Until he realizes just how far he has to scroll down in his messages to find their last text conversation.</p><p>Of all the people he's faded away from, he didn't expect she'd be one of them.</p><p>"<em>It's not malevolent," </em>he reminds himself. <em>"You're just both...drifting. And she's been busy with her new job."</em></p><p>She'd finally escaped the clutches of full-time employment at The Vatican as of three and a half months ago (and he only knows that because she'd updated her LinkedIn) to take a position as a mental health counselor in Greendale's youth services department. It fits her well, he supposes. Better than being an outright psychologist. Not that she'd be <em>bad </em>at that, per se, but her current role gives her more space to really apply her empathy to benefit the community.</p><p>Jeff takes out his phone—old habits die hard, even though he has way fewer reasons to text anyone and way fewer people to text—and he's dialing her number automatically.</p><p>He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the final two numbers. He's still got it memorized.</p><p>He can't even blame this one on a night of heavy drinking.</p><p>But he doesn't want that excuse, that ersatz absolution. He wants to acknowledge this feeling, this...this absence as presence thing that's solidified between him and Britta.</p><p>He punches in the last two digits and presses the call button before he can stop himself.</p><p>She doesn't pick up.</p><p>Her new, professional, polished voicemail message rings through his ears with carefully cultivated cheer. "Hi, this is Britta Perry. I'm not available right now, but if you leave me a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks, and have a great day!"</p><p>He misses when it was an irreverent, "Hey, Britta here, you know what to do. I'll hit you back, or maybe not."</p><p>"Hey, Britta." He's about to say his name, then thinks, <em>"Like she wouldn't know that it's me. And caller ID's been a thing for decades, dumbass."</em></p><p>This isn't what he does, this flying blind nonsense. But, then again, he's talking, or not talking, more accurately, to his ex-fiancee (double ex-fiancee?), with whom he snuck around for a year and dated using a codename on at least three occasions. They're the bog-standard "anti-normal" couple. Or were. Maybe a recycling of the "will they or won't they" couple trope, too, if he's going down this Abed-esque analytical path. More of a "they will, until they won't. Until they can't."</p><p>Great people—like Michelle—are too good for him, and the fellow degenerates—like Britta—are too broken for him to properly handle. He just adds to the damage.</p><p>And people wonder why he can't settle down.</p><p>"<em>Whatever, this isn't the time to dissect your friggin life,"</em> Jeff glowers.<em> "Just say something, or she's gonna give you shit for breathing on the phone like a creep."</em></p><p>He tries not to think about how fucked it is that he'd look forward to being on the receiving end of Britta's barbs.</p><p>"Dunno if you keep up on Greendale news, but, uh, we got a big grant awarded for a STEM lab. Found out today, actually, so it probably wouldn't have been announced yet. Should be a lot better than the frog and mouse dissecting we did. Or working with sweet potatoes."</p><p>"<em>I'm so out of practice with the Winger speeches," </em>he realizes. Except Britta had usually seen them for what they were, saw <em>him </em>for what he was, so often: a charlatan, hiding behind well-expressed sentiments designed to so often draw a close to proceedings, to get a joint "aww!" from Shirley and Annie, a little grin from Troy.</p><p>This—this phone call might be (definitely is) sad, and a little pathetic, but it's real. And if there's one thing Britta's always possessed that he's found hard to find, it's authenticity, so he keeps talking. "Anyway, I was out with Frankie and Craig earlier, at this new spot by Greendale, and I saw one of my former Intro to Law twerps with his friends. It—it made me think of the old group. I miss 'em. But," he laughs, trying to play this cool, like he's hardly admitting anything at all, "I miss you the most, Britts. Which is fucked. Since we're both still here. So, yeah." He cringes at that ending. What is he, a fucking Communications 101 student? He adds, to reference her old voicemail missive, "Feel free to hit me back. Or maybe not."</p><p>He bites back the lame-ass sentiment that comes to his head. That, in a sense, ever since that very first day he wanted to nail her, everything he's done has just been another way to scream out her name.</p><p>He washes out his whiskey tumbler and shoves the booze into the back of the pantry for good measure—it feels like tonight will be one of those times when his resolve to stick to the two drink limit gets tested.</p><p>He's about sixty four percent successful at losing himself in whatever basketball game is playing on TBS when his phone buzzes. He fumbles at it, can't help but grin as he checks the caller ID.</p><p>The call back feels like a victory, even if it shouldn't, as he answers, "Hey, you."</p>
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